


Mutual Orbit

by Kass



Series: Author's Favorites [7]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, post-TSbyBS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-17
Updated: 2008-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-01 23:37:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of TSbyBS.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutual Orbit

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Meghan, who sent me her tape of TSbyBS; to Sihaya, whose beta-reading is unparalleled; and to Justine, who told me to drop and give her twenty pages. Thanks, also, to Prospect-L, for being so damn much fun.

> Balanced on the blade of a fan / churning the air, we entwine. / All things chop at us / but we hover together / where we would separately fall. / In chaos we dance.
> 
> In this dance no one leads, / although we both push, pull / on the other's stubborn momentum / and inertia, trying to put / our own spin on this mutual / orbit hurtling through space.
> 
> —Marge Piercy, from "Domestic Danger"

Although I left the station an hour after Sandburg did—he'd taken Naomi to the airport after Simon's little ceremony—we pulled in to park at the same time. I stood by the truck, waiting, while Sandburg rifled around in the back seat of his car, looking for something. His car was even more of a disaster area than usual, and he didn't seem to find what he was looking for; after a few minutes we headed upstairs.

I opened the door and my heart almost stopped: there were boxes all over the living room floor. Full boxes. Loaded with Sandburg's things. Books, and a couple of masks, and some not-very-clean coffee cups, and a flannel shirt or two.

He walked in behind me and we both stood there for a second. I don't know what he was thinking, but I couldn't help remembering the last time the living room was filled with his boxes, and not by his choice.

"You're," I started. "You're not—"

"Nah," he said, reading my mind. "It's...my office." He waved his hand vaguely. "The dean said I had to be out by today."

The words were a small knife to my insides. I hadn't forgotten what he was going through at the university, not exactly—I just hadn't wanted to think about it.

"What do you want to do with them?"

"Burn 'em." He gave a little laugh.

"Okay, what do you want to do with them that you won't regret in a week."

He shot me a quick glance. "Stack 'em in my room, I guess."

He bent to pick up a box, and I tried to do the same, but my leg wasn't cooperating and I couldn't quite figure out what to do with my cane.

"I can get it."

"It ever occur to you that maybe I'd like to help?"

He looked over his shoulder at me, box braced on a raised knee. "Fine, then. Gimme a cup of coffee?"

"Pot's empty," I called from the kitchen.

"So make some!"

So I did, feeling strangely reassured by the repeated sounds: fingers working their way under cardboard, the slight change in Sandburg's breathing as he lifted each box, his footsteps across the floor, the occasional pause to kick some errant piece of clothing out of his way.

When the sounds stopped I went to see what had stopped them, and found him sitting on the floor reading an old field journal. The cover was blue. It wasn't one I recognized.

I gently leaned my cane on the table and bent to pick up a box. Screw the wound, it wasn't that big a deal, I ought to be able to lift a fucking cardboard box, right? The one nearest me was an open one, piled with books, and it weighed a ton. Unfortunately, it tilted as I lifted it, and the largest book—an encyclopedia or something, it had to be four inches thick—slid out. There was an instant during which I could have caught it, if I hadn't been holding the box. And then it hit Sandburg's knee, landing right on the kneecap with a loud crack.

"Shit!" He sounded pissed.

I wrestled the box to the ground and knelt, a little awkwardly, moving his hand out of the way, wanting to make sure the kneecap wasn't fucked up. Hell, who am I kidding; it was an excuse to touch him.

And I really did want to make sure he was okay.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Sandburg muttered, jerking away from my hands.

"I'm sorry."

"S'okay." He straightened the leg and winced.

"No, I'm sorry," I said again.

"Whatever, it's fine, I'll get some ice."

"Chief —"

He stilled and looked at me.

"I mean I'm *sorry*." I hadn't meant to say it right then, but I guess it was as good a time as any.

Resignation came over his features, whether about his knee or the conversation I wasn't sure. "For what, Jim?"

It didn't sound like he knew the answer and was just stringing me along. Then again, it didn't really sound like he wanted to hear my answer, either. It sounded like he was just playing along with the conversation, and that was the next thing to say.

I took a breath. "For doubting your friendship."

Sandburg looked faintly surprised. He tightened his lips, gave a small half-nod. "Mm. Yeah, I guess you should be."

I plunged on before I lost my nerve. "And about the press conference."

"It's okay," he said. There were tired shadows around his eyes, but his voice was calm. "Things happen for reasons. This was meant to be."

"That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."

His eyes flashed angry for an instant. "I didn't say it didn't hurt. It hurts like a motherfucker. It hurts like chopping off my arm—no, not my arm, arm's just a limb, you can live without it. It hurts like..."

"Like cutting out your heart." Quiet.

After a moment he nodded. "But that's not the point."

"Then enlighten me, Sandburg," I said, a little more sharply than I intended. "What *is* the point?"

"The point is," he paused to brush a stray piece of hair behind his ear, "I'm where I'm supposed to be, and I need to carry this crap into my room, and you," giving me a thump on the chest for emphasis, "get the honor of making tonight's dinner. So get cracking, man."

He gave a little smile, and clambered to his feet, and helped me to mine.

So that's how it's going to be, I thought, opening the fridge to see what was inside. I felt...strange. I wondered if this was what people mean when they say they feel hollow.

I'd been working my way up to that apology for a couple of days now, since I saw him throw his career away. I'd expected that apologizing would make me feel better. You know: like your parents always said about taking your medicine. It's unpleasant, but you'll feel better after you do it.

Except I didn't feel better. And I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do.

*Make dinner*, my brain reminded me: Sandburg had said it was my turn, and in the absence of a good emotional solution, a practical one's better than nothing. I realized I was standing in front of the open refrigerator.

The shelves swam into focus: a carton of milk, some eggs, half a block of cheddar cheese, three half-empty cartons of take-out, a few stalks of broccoli turning brown at the edges.

The pantry wasn't much better: granola from the health food store, a large can of chili, a cellophane package of rice noodles and a stale loaf of bread.

"We're low on dinner, Chief," I called.

"What the hell kind of provider are you?" The teasing in his voice was a relief.

"I've been a little fucking preoccupied this week, so sue me," I grumbled.

Sandburg appeared in the doorway. "*You've* been preoccupied?"

There was a thread of danger in his voice.

"We've both been preoccupied," I amended.

"So go shopping." He poured another cup of coffee and went to move another box.

I wasn't about to go shopping; I didn't want to leave the house. Not with Susie Q. Journalist waiting behind every parked car and tree to stick a microphone in my face.

I ordered pizza. A large one with caramelized onions and real olives, and a side of garlic bread with extra cheese. Then I thumped back out to the living room where Sandburg was slumped on the sofa. "You don't know how close to danger you just came," I said, joining him. "I could've served you shit on a shingle."

"But you won't."

"Ordered pizza instead."

"Mmm." He reached for the remote. "Wanna see what's on?"

"Only if it's not us." We both laughed, and sat back to wait for our pizza. Things almost felt normal. I could almost relax.

* * *

The timing on Sandburg's career change wasn't ideal; the academy starts in September, and it was verging on November. So Simon pulled some strings and convinced the brass that three years of being my ride-along had taught Sandburg enough basic procedure to join the current class of cadets late. He started the following Monday.

All day I resisted the temptation to swing by and see how he was doing. I wouldn't even have to go inside; I could sit in my truck, stretch out my hearing, make sure he was okay...

.....but I knew it wasn't a good idea. For one thing, it isn't safe to stretch my hearing that far without Sandburg there to ground me. I've learned a lot about controlling my senses, but I'm not Superman.

And I'd get my hide blistered six ways from Sunday if he caught me checking up on him. When he's angry he's got a vocabulary that would shame a sailor. I had no desire to be on the receiving end of that kind of tirade.

It was a long day.

I left a little before five, swung by the grocery store, and was at the stove doctoring a pot of chili when Sandburg got home.

"Hey, Chief."

I heard the sound of his backpack hitting the floor, the thumps of two boots landing in the corner. "Smells good," he called. "Wasn't it my night to cook?"

"I figured you might be," I began, then fell silent as he entered the kitchen. What was I going to say? Tired? Scared? Overwhelmed? "...not in the mood," I finished lamely.

Sandburg seemed to be considering that for a moment, then nodded. "Thanks, man." He crossed to the fridge. "Beer?"

"Got one, thanks."

I heard him padding out to the living room; I heard the sofa compress as he flopped down on it. I put the lid on the chili, surveyed the bowls of chopped onion and grated cheese, peeked at the cornbread in the oven and went to join Sandburg.

"So, how was it?"

He gave a small shrug. "Not bad."

"Care to expand on that?"

"Not the most intellectually challenging day of my life, but otherwise okay."

Damn it, he knew that wasn't the kind of answer I was looking for. "Any... details stand out?"

"There's some fascinating graffiti on my desk."

"Don't be cagey."

He took a long swig of his beer. "I'm not. I just don't have anything to report. This isn't an interrogation, Jim. You asked how my day was and I said it wasn't bad. End of story."

Parry, thrust, point to Sandburg and the match was over. Just like that.

* * *

And that's how the next few weeks went. I lost the cane, Simon made it out of the wheelchair and onto crutches, and Sandburg refused to say a damn thing about the academy. Getting information out of him was like pulling rose bushes: more work than it was worth, and a good likelihood of a jab here and there.

So I kept my ear to the ground. All accounts were that he was doing fine. Sitting at the back of the classroom, not attracting a ton of attention, answering questions articulately when called-upon. The instructors thought he was the shit, which didn't surprise me - it probably wasn't often they got students like Sandburg.

But I should have known things weren't going as smoothly as he seemed to want to pretend. He'd proclaimed fraud on the morning news: you don't throw a stone like that without getting some ripples.

And then he came home with bruises.

"Hey, you remember self-defense, from back in the Dark Ages when you were a cadet?" he joked when I asked. "Can't learn to spar without taking a few knocks."

His heartbeat wasn't up, so I assumed he wasn't lying. He didn't have enough practice in lying to me to be able to do it without breaking a sweat, right?

Other than the one sparring comment, he didn't say anything about school at all. It was always "fine" or "not bad" or "hey, you know what it's like." I wanted to say no, I don't know what it's like, not for you—but I didn't want to push it: things felt tentative, and I didn't want to push too hard. Afraid something would break.

A week or so before Thanksgiving I ran into Jack Benson in the break room. We smiled, and said hello, and he poured me a cup of coffee. I've known Benson for years; he's almost my dad's age. And one of his nephews was a new cadet, along with Sandburg.

"How's Eric liking the academy?" I asked.

"Oh, not bad."

"That's what Sandburg says too."

"Yeah, that's what they all say. Can't let on that they're having the time of their lives; wouldn't look cool." He laughed.

"I'm not sure coolness is really Sandburg's top priority at the moment, but I appreciate the sentiment," I said.

Then I asked what I really wanted to know. "Hey, do you know who's teaching self-defense this term?"

I know you have to get banged up when you're learning how to fight, but I didn't like the way that Sandburg had seemed to get hit. Made me wonder if the teacher, whoever it was, had it in for him.

Benson cocked his head, like I'd just slipped into Quechua. "Crafts was supposed to teach it, but her husband was diagnosed with cancer and she's taking the semester off," he said. "They won't start self-defense until January."

The coffee turned to acid in my mouth. "Yeah, of course," I said, as if I'd known.

I don't remember the rest of our conversation. All I remember of that day is sitting at my desk, flipping a pen around my hand, trying to figure out what the fuck to do. Somebody'd beat up Sandburg; and he'd lied to me. I wasn't sure what to do about either one.

* * *

"So whaddaya wanna do for the holiday, Chief?"

Sandburg looked up from his tea and his copy of Harper's. "It's not this week, is it?"

I nodded and his eyebrows raised.

"Huh," he said. "Time flies."

But you're not having fun, I wanted to say. Why won't you tell me you're not having fun? "We've got two invitations," I said instead. "Dad and Simon."

Sandburg pursed his lips. "Somehow I don't get the feeling Thanksgiving at the Ellison house is an especially warm and fuzzy event."

"Not exactly, no. Sally makes a mean sweet potato pie, but that's about all I can say to recommend it."

"I make a mean sweet potato pie," Sandburg said, a smile playing around his lips.

"Oh yeah?" God, it was good to see him smile, even if he wasn't actually smiling at me.

"Yeah. Naomi taught me how when I was about six. Man, we had a time getting sweet potatoes some of the places we lived. A sweet potato by any other name does *not* taste as sweet."

I laughed, and he laughed, and for a minute things felt like they used to.

"You wanna make a pie, and we'll take it to Simon's, then?"

"Major Crimes gonna be there?"

"Yeah, I think so," I said, not sure whether that would make him want to go, or not want to go. "Brown's got family, but Rafe and Connor'll probably be there. Rhonda, maybe."

I could almost see the wheels turning in his head, but I couldn't figure which way they'd go.

"Yeah, okay," he said finally, returning to his magazine.

* * *

The night before Thanksgiving I saw another bruise.

I hadn't seen any since that first time, during his first week; I'd managed to convince myself that they'd been an anomaly. Everyone I talked to said he was doing fine at the academy. And aside from the obvious lie he'd told about self-defense class, there wasn't much I could pin on him, other than a general unwillingness to talk.

But there it was on his wrist, a nasty one, yellow and purple.

"What happened to your wrist?"

"Bad break-fall, I guess."

I couldn't stand it anymore. "Bullshit."

He looked over at me, eyes reflecting mild surprise. I was standing by the window; from where he was lying on the couch he had to crane his neck slightly to meet my eye.

"I talked to my buddy Benson the other day."

Sandburg blinked, obviously unsure where I was going with the apparent non sequitur.

"He's got a nephew in your class. Tells me self-defense won't start until January."

I could see the wind leaking out of his sails: his posture changed slightly, his shoulders curled in, defensive. Slowly he swung his legs over the side of the couch and sat.

"How'd you really get the bruises, Chief?"

He didn't look at me. "No big deal," he said. "A few of the guys have a little...thing for me."

"No big deal? It's a fucking big deal if somebody's beating you up, Sandburg!"

"Well, first of all, it's only happened twice," he said. I glared. "And they didn't exactly get away unscathed. One guy got a bloody nose and the other guy's gonna be spending the holiday with a black eye. Not to mention the fact I kneed him in the balls."

He laughed a little, and I couldn't help a chuckle, imagining how surprised these assholes must've been when Sandburg fought back. He may be soft-spoken sometimes, but my partner's no wuss.

Then I sobered. "It's not funny, Chief."

"Relax, Jim. Shit, it's not like this is a first. I've been beat up before."

This was news to me. "When?" I tried to make my voice non-threatening; I really did want to know.

"All through junior high." There was a rueful tilt to his head. "Lotta smart kids do. Especially if we don't want to give our Spanish homework to the big kids."

"But this wasn't about homework."

He gave a half-shrug. "No."

There was a pause. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Was it because of me?"

Tightening his lips, he nodded.

"God damn it." All the ineffectiveness I'd felt the last few weeks was churning inside me. "Those bastards. After what you went through to renounce your data -"

He was shaking his head.

"What?"

"You're only half right." He sounded amused, which kind of pissed me off; somebody had hurt him, this was serious, and not only had he hidden it from me, he was laughing about it. "It's about you, but it's not because of the sentinel thing."

It hit me like a ton of bricks and I sat down hard beside him. "They think we're lovers," I said.

It was a more intimate word than I'd intended to use - I'd meant to say "partners," "together," "gay" even - and he looked at me funny for a second.

"Hey, it's all right," he said, scooting forward a little, perching on the sofa's edge. "I mean, I tried to tell them there was no way you could possibly deserve a charmer like me, but they didn't buy it." He was smiling again, and this time I appreciated his effort to lighten the mood. I felt like I'd almost given myself away, using "lovers" so easily to describe us, and the near-slip scared me.

"Duly noted, Chief," I said.

He looked startled. "Hey," he said. "You know that's not what I really think."

The moment was there: I should have seized it. Should have said, "So what *do* you really think?" But I was chickenshit, and I let it go. The silence lasted an instant too long, then he stood. "Time to make some pie," he said, and headed for the kitchen.

* * *

We didn't manage to sleep very late on Thanksgiving morning, and there wasn't much to do at home, so we went to Simon's early. The minute we got there Darryl latched onto Sandburg. There's some definite hero-worship going on there - has been ever since we got him and Simon out of Peru. I think it's pretty cute, actually.

"Wanna shoot some hoop?" Darryl asked.

"Sure," Sandburg said. He was saying something about guarding as they went out the sliding door. Simon and I stayed inside with the pre-game show on mute.

"How's he holding up?" Simon gestured to Sandburg with his unlit cigar, as if I didn't know who he meant.

"Okay, I guess." The memory of our conversation returned to me and I felt my jaw tighten. "Coupl'a guys evidently have it in for him, but he says he's all right."

"He's doing this for you," Simon said.

"I know that."

Simon nodded thoughtfully. "Not a lot of guys would do what he's doing for you," he said.

I nodded.

"Not a lot of women, either."

I was about to ask him what the hell that meant when I heard Sandburg curse. Something about it sounded wrong, and I dialed up hearing in time to hear him hit the ground. I was out the door before Simon knew what was going on.

Sandburg was on the pavement, curled to one side.

"You okay?"

He gritted his teeth. "Arm," he said.

I reached down and took his arm in both hands, feeling as gently as I could. He hissed in a breath as I pressed where I could feel the injury's heat.

"Broken," I said.

"Fuck," Darryl said behind me.

"Language!" Simon sounded angry, but I guessed he was more worried about Sandburg than upset with his son.

"I broke his arm?"

"No," I said, trying to sound reassuring for Darryl's benefit while I glared at my partner. "I think it was already broken when he decided to play ball."

He closed his eyes for a second in surrender. "Maybe," he admitted through clenched teeth.

"Connor won't be here until two," Simon said around his cigar. "Take him to the hospital, Jim."

So I did.

* * *

They set the bone, splinted it nice and tight, gave us a prescription for extra-strength tylenol and sent us home. I was driving like a jerk: I was angry.

"Those bastards broke your arm," I said. Hell, I was furious. Mostly at the assholes who had done this to him - what had they said to him, how many of them had there been? - but also at Sandburg for hiding it from me for so long.

And at myself for not figuring it out sooner.

"Gonna be fine," he said. "Quick splint, good as new."

"Look," I said, and paused. "Blair." That got his attention. "You don't have to go through with this."

"Don't start."

"No, listen to me, will you?" I took a deep breath. "I know you didn't have a lot of choices."

"No, *you* listen. I'm only saying this once." He sighed, sounding frustrated. "I didn't want to have this goddamned conversation, but it looks like you're forcing the point."

I waited.

"I thought I'd lost everything, okay? Three million dollars and the Nobel Prize weren't worth losing your friendship - or ruining your life."

I couldn't believe it: he was actually talking about it.

"So I figured I'd do what I had to do, get the hell out of town and start over someplace they didn't know me."

We had pulled up at Simon's but neither one of us moved to get out of the truck, just sat there with our seatbelts unfastened. I looked at him, he looked at the floor of the truck.

"Then I found out I get to stay here. I get *you*. When I make it through this fucking academy I get to be your partner - permanent and official, this time." As he looked up at me his heartbeat was loud in my ears: a little fast, but steady. "That's worth ten times this much shit - a hundred times. Okay? Do you get it now?"

That was when I started to get it.

"I think so," I said. "Wanna go eat some turkey?"

And we headed inside, my brain spinning. Wondering if I was really, finally, for the first time, starting to understand.

* * *

Thanksgiving was fine. Turkey, the usual fixings, a decent apple pie courtesy of Rafe, a case of Foster's courtesy of Connor. (Turns out Simon's about the right size for those cans; in his hands they look almost normal.) Sandburg's sweet potato pie was about as good as he'd said it was. We ate dinner, avoided talking about work as best we could, watched some football (Connor making fun the whole time) and came home by nightfall.

I couldn't stop thinking about what Sandburg had said, and what I thought he might have meant. I tossed it around in my head all weekend. "Worth ten times this much shit" - but what, exactly, was worth it?

I knew he was doing this for me; Simon hadn't been bringing me any late-breaking news. I knew it was above and beyond the call of duty. I knew that I half-hated myself for it, some days, thinking about what his life could have been; I knew that the prospect of being partnered with him made me happier than it had any right to.

But he'd said it was worth the shit. Worth the gay-bashing for a relationship that wasn't.

I contemplated different ways of bringing it up. "Hey, Chief, if you're gonna get beat up for it, might as well be sleeping with me." Yeah, right. I have a lot of bravado in my fantasies, but I wasn't about to just land a liplock on the guy.

Even if I was becoming increasingly sure that I was right, that we were both feeling the tension, that coil of excitement in the gut. The electric feeling of what was almost-there.

Saturday night, after brushing my teeth, I knocked on his door.

"Yeah?"

He was wearing flannel boxers and wool socks and a t-shirt - my t-shirt, an old one that said Cascade PD. It stirred something in me to see my shirt on him, faded and almost wearing thin here and there.

"That's my shirt, Sandburg," I said, hoping I didn't sound happy about it.

"Sorry." Not sounding sorry at all. "Stole it from the hamper, I guess."

I shrugged.

"I was about to hit the sack," he said, raking his fingers over the top of his hair - short curls, now, which I was finally getting used to.

"I need to ask you something." My voice must have given me away: his face cleared, he nodded slightly, moved a half-step toward me, inviting.

"Sure," he said. "Whatever it is. Ask away."

I had to close my eyes for a second. When I reopened them I had to take a quick breath, startled by his proximity.

"What you said the other day," I began. "About how you told those guys I didn't deserve you, and then you said that isn't really how you feel."

He was completely still but I could hear his heart starting to triphammer.

"How *do* you really feel?"

He gave a half-smile. God, if he was thinking what I thought he was thinking, I was amazed by his calmness. "You really want me to answer that?"

Giving me an out. A final out. In case I wanted to change my mind, keep dancing around what I was now almost certain we were both dancing around. "Yeah, I'm sure," and my voice cracked a little.

He moved closer, slid his good arm around me, and - eyes open, watching me the whole way - touched his mouth to mine.

We kissed for what seemed like a long time, sweet and tender and amazed - at least, I was amazed. Just because I thought I'd been right, just because I'd imagined this a million times, didn't mean I was prepared for it, for how *good* it was.

We were pressed together, I could feel both of us starting to get hard, although we weren't pressed as tightly as I wanted; we were favoring his arm and my leg, even though he had a splint and I was off the cane. When we pulled back we were both grinning like idiots.

"Damn," I said.

"What?" His smile reached his eyes, this time; it was a whole smile, a full-body smile. It made something in me sing.

"This." I kissed him again.

"Oh, that." He was a little breathless, which pleased me. "Yeah."

When we broke he pulled back, still holding on to me, and motioned toward the futon. "You want to try this horizontal?"

"I dunno, Sandburg, what do you think?"

"I think you'd better be on that bed in forty-five seconds flat," he said.

The tone of his voice sent a thrill up my spine; my dick was so hard it poked out of my bathrobe as I complied. He knelt over me, pulled the belt on my robe, let it fall open. God, it was good to be bare beneath his gaze.

My turn to order. "Take your shirt off."

His eyes never leaving mine, he reached behind himself and grabbed the t-shirt at the neck, pulling it over his head, dropping it on the floor. His nipples were hard, perfect dusky circles, little patches of smooth on his hairy chest, and I pulled him down, wanting to feel that chest against me.

"You feel so good," I heard myself say some indeterminate amount of time later. We had rubbed our bodies together until I was surprised we weren't making sparks.

He took my earlobe gently in his teeth and I shivered. His voice was almost inaudible when he murmured "Tell me what you like."

He skated a finger lightly over my nipples and I felt myself rising to meet him, wanting more. He chuckled.

Wondering dimly when I'd lost control of the situation, I answered. "I liked that—"

He rolled the nipple between finger and thumb and I couldn't help a groan. I could feel his heat all around me, could smell his body and his sweat, and it was so much better than I had imagined...

"Keep talking."

My face reddened. "Not my strong suit, Chief," I managed as he moved down to lick first one nipple, then the other. His fingers on the wet skin made my breathing heavy.

"You're drilling a hole in my thigh, here," he observed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're enjoying this. Keep talking, Jim."

What was I so afraid of? I was safe here with him, wasn't I? "Don't let me zone," I said. "Don't —"

"Don't what?" He seemed to sense my panic; his voice calmed a little, he laid a reassuring hand on my side.

"Don't leave." It came out hoarse, not the way I meant to sound, but he didn't flinch.

He shifted, pushed himself back up the bed, propped himself over me. "I wouldn't," he said. "I won't, Jim. I want this more than anything." He must have seen the residual fear in my eyes; he smiled and bent to kiss me. "I promise," he murmured just over my mouth.

I let my breath go and felt the barriers collapsing.

"I want you so bad," I rasped, turning my head to give him better access to my neck, which he sucked at.

One warm hand closed around my cock and there was no turning back.

"Oh, God." His heavy fingers, so strong, so real: my voice cracked. "Tell me what you want, I'll do anything."

He licked my collarbone and I shivered, my whole body running hot and cold. He pulled his hand away and I made a small sound, forlorn.

"Touch your nipples for me," he said, and—hardly believing I was doing this—I skimmed my hand up my own chest and let my fingers play there.

"Ohhh yeah," he murmured. "You look so hot like that. And you like it when I tell you what to do."

I knew I was blushing as I nodded. I closed my eyes.

"Open your eyes, Jim," he said, his voice stronger now, and I had to do it. I opened them as he lifted my other hand and slipped two fingers into his mouth. I groaned, I couldn't help imagining—

He relinquished my hand, smiling. It was a proprietary smile; it made me tingle. "Touch yourself," he said, and my hand snaked down to my cock. The wet fingers felt so good, especially with his eyes on me. He was stroking himself now, lightly, and I could see the skin on his cock stretching as his hand slid down.

He moved, then, between my legs, nudging them open, and pulled my hands to my sides. Bracing himself on his good arm, he bent and nuzzled at my cock, licking at the base, rubbing his face along its length.

"You want my mouth?"

I gulped a breath of air. "Oh, God. Yes. Please, Blair."

"Reach up," he said, and I tried, arching my back, lifting my pelvis. His mouth was so close, so tantalizingly close, and I had never wanted anything so badly in my life. "Show me." His voice was low but it was steel.

"Please," I managed. "Oh, please."

And suddenly he pushed my hips into the mattress and fastened his mouth around the tip of my cock. I came so hard, it felt so good, I thought I might die.

Some moments later he moved back up my body and curled behind me. I was loose and floppy, my whole body still throbbing; his erection pressed into me like a brand. I could feel it, hot, through his boxers. He was rubbing against me gently, little thrusts.

"Let me taste you," I murmured.

His arms unclasped and I pushed him onto his back, bending to scent my way down his body. I pressed into his armpits, craving the astringency of his sweat; I painted his nipples with the tip of my tongue, then held each one in my teeth, almost gnawing, until he moaned. I pulled his boxers away, moved down to his thighs, then pushed his legs apart and bent them up to his chest, exposing the cleft of his ass.

When I let go he moved his hands from where they were twined in the sheet, held his own legs high for me, as I ran one finger along his perineum and stroked as lightly as I could across his anus. He sighed and pulled his legs open even more.

I will never forget that sight as long as I live.

He couldn't hold his left leg very well, thanks to the splint, so his hamstring quivered a little from the strain of holding still. I placed a kiss on the jumping muscle, loving the way it moved beneath the skin.

I bent until I was almost lying on the mattress and inched my way up, letting the tip of my tongue touch him there, and he made a sound I can only call a whimper—soft, aching, needy. I felt saturated with him, drenched in his sounds and scents and textures, my body still thrumming.

When I worked my tongue into him his whole body tightened and his breathing grew shallow, like he was close to coming and couldn't quite keep himself together. I moved one hand and stroked lightly over his cock and that was all it took—he groaned, sounding almost surprised, as the come pulsed out of him. He let his legs go, almost kicking me in the small of the back, which would have made me laugh if I hadn't been so overwhelmed by the intimacy, by all of the sensory input, by the fact of who I was making love with—the fact that I was pretty sure it was love, period.

I wiped him off with the edge of the blanket and curled around him and that was how we fell asleep.

* * *

I woke up before he did and slipped out of bed to piss and brush my teeth. During the four and a half minutes that I was out of bed, I managed to make myself nervous. All the usual morning-after crud, combined with my general low-level fear that this police academy thing was going to tear us apart.

He rolled out of bed when I got into it, and went to do the same thing I'd done. I felt awkward in his bed alone: I stared at the books on his shelves and listened to the sounds of his toothbrush resonating in his mouth. He came back in smiling.

"Hey," he said, climbing back into bed with me.

"Hey yourself." I wrapped around him and buried my face in his neck.

"Mmm," he said. For a little while we didn't talk, just held each other.

"You okay?" he asked after a while.

I sighed, let go a little, flopped onto my back. "Mostly."

"What's up?"

I shrugged and he climbed on top of me. "No way," he said. "You're not getting away with that."

"You're a pain in the ass, anyone ever tell you that, Chief?"

He grinned. "Spit it out."

I took a breath and tried to figure out how to put my anxiety into words. "If this doesn't work," I said, then fell silent again.

He placed a small kiss on the side of my neck. "No reason it shouldn't."

"Not *this* this—I mean the academy thing —"

He sighed dramatically. "Look. Jim." He rolled off of me, propped himself up on the good elbow, looked at me intently.

"Yeah?"

"I love you." The words were evenly-spaced, a little slow, weighted with every kiss and touch we'd savored.

"But," I supplied. He grinned.

"But, you gotta get over yourself."

"How's that?" His smile was contagious. Jesus, we were in the middle of this conversation and he had me smiling.

"I am not. Doing this. For you."

"Yeah, but—"

"Shut up and listen." There was a hint of—God—domination in his voice. It made my cock twitch.

"I'm gonna regret telling you how much I like that, aren't I?"

"Oh, no, I don't think so," he said. We grinned at each other like idiots again before he spoke. "We're going to have a lot of fun with that, but I've got to get this through your head first."

I waited.

"I'm doing this for me. For the most selfish of all possible reasons. Which is that once I'm a cop, I get to work with you. --Ah, ah, ah," he cut me off, seeing that I was about to interrupt. "Jim, the academy—the big-A Academy, y'know, *academia*—hasn't suited me for a long time. I don't fit there. And the press conference was actually the perfect proof of that."

Now he waited, for me to follow. "Because the academic thing to do would have been to take the money and the prize," I said slowly.

"Right. Money, prizes, accolades—they're the pinnacle of that world. Whereas the pinnacle of this world is visions, and spirit guides, and saving people's lives." He crawled back on top of me, our legs intertwining, bracing himself on one arm. "Not to mention *this* pinnacle," grinding gently against me, and I had to close my eyes for a minute to savor the friction and the heat.

He lowered himself to my chest and placed a kiss on my neck. "You get it now?"

"I got it," I murmured, rolling us so that I was on top of him. As we kissed he rolled us again.

* * *

When I remember that morning, that's what I remember—the two of us rolling, him on top, me on top.

Sandburg made it through the academy, and while it wasn't the easiest year we've ever had, it wasn't the hardest, either: no more rogue sentinels, no more fountains, no more press conferences. Over time, no more guilt, at least not when we're awake and well-rested and grounded and being smart about it. It's not to say we don't backslide, now and then, but we've largely left the guilt behind with the rest of it.

Unlike most rookies, he skipped the patrol phase and went straight to a permanent posting with me; that was part of the agreement Simon worked, way back when.

These days I don't think anyone thinks of me as the senior officer in the partnership, not anymore. We're just Sandburg and Ellison, Ellison and Sandburg. Protecting the city and each other the best way we can. It's hard to say who's in charge; it's hard to say who's the boss and who's the sidekick, who's the top and who's the bottom (my little kink for orders notwithstanding). We just keep spinning and rolling, him on top, me on top, following each other in this mutual orbit.


End file.
